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MISS JOHNS. I shall remember what you said, Mr.Broxopp, without taking any notes.

BROXOPP. Ah, well, you must please yourself about that. (Looking at his watch) Now, then, I’m waiting for you.

MISS JOHNS. I—— (She hesitates.)

BROXOPP (kindly). Perhaps you’re not used to interviewing? This is the first time you’ve done it, eh?

MISS JOHNS. Well, I don’t do it, as a rule. And I’m afraid——

BROXOPP. Well, perhaps I can help you with it. You must send me your manuscript. My wife (he looks at the door with a frown—what has happened to her?) to whom I owe so much, was my first interviewer—ah, that was many years ago. She picked up a guinea for it, but that wasn’t the important thing. It was the publicity. “A Talk with one of our Commercial Princes”—I don’t suppose the Editor had ever even heard of me. (Chuckling) Ah, but we bluffed him. Lord, how we piled it on. “‘Tell me, Mr.Broxopp,’ I said—” that was my wife. “Mr.Broxopp leant against his marble mantelpiece—” that was me—“and fingered the well-known Broxopp tie—” (indicating it) same one as this. “‘Ah, my dear boy,’ he said—” The dear boy was my wife, of course—she signed herself N.R. Chillingham, her maiden name; you women weren’t so popular on the Press in those days—we pretended she was a man. “‘Ah, my dear boy,’ he said, and I shall never forget the look which came over his rugged face—” my wife didn’t ssss1like rugged, but I insisted; sounded more like a commercial prince—“‘there is only one secret of success, and that is hard work.’” (With a sigh) Ah, well, those days are over. Happy days! The world seems to have grown up since then. (Looking at his watch) Well, Miss Johns?